The Valley of the Moon Jack London

the road. These animals ain't automobile broke altogether, an' if

  you think I'm goin' to have 'em shy off the grade you got another

  guess comin'."

  A confusion of injured protestation arose from those that sat in

  the car.

  "You needn't be a road-hog because you're a Rube," said the

  chauffeur. "We ain't a-goin' to hurt your horses. Pull out so we

  can pass. If you don't . . ."

  "That'll do you, sport," was Billy's retort. "You can't talk that

  way to yours truly. I got your number an' your tag, my son.

  You're standin' on your foot. Back up the grade an' get off of

  it. Stop on the outside at the first psssin'-place an' we'll pass

  you. You've got the juice. Throw on the reverse."

  After a nervous consultation, the chauffeur obeyed, and the car

  backed up the hill and out of sight around the turn.

  "Them cheap skates," Billy sneered to Saxon, "with a couple of

  gallons of gasoline an' the price of a machine a-thinkin' they

  own the roads your folks an' my folks made."

  "Talkin' all night about it?" came the chauffeur's voice from

  around the bend. "Get a move on. You can pass."

  "Get off your foot," Billy retorted contemptuously. "I'm a-comin'

  when I'm ready to come, an' if you ain't given room enough I'll

  go clean over you an' your load of chicken meat."

  He slightly slacked the reins on the restless, head-tossing

  animals, and without need of chirrup they took the weight of the

  light vehicle and passed up the hill and apprehensively on the

  inside of the purring machine.

  "Where was we?" Billy queried, as the clear road showed in front.

  "Yep, take my boss. Why should he own two hundred horses, an'

  women, an' the rest, an' you an' me own nothin'?"

  "You own your silk, Billy," she said softly.

  "An' you yours. Yet we sell it to 'em like it was cloth across

  the counter at so much a yard. I guess you're hep to what a few

  more years in the laundry'll do to you. Take me. I'm sellin' my

  silk slow every day I work. See that little finger?" He shifted

  the reins to one hand for a moment and held up the free hand for

  inspection. "I can't straighten it like the others, an' it's

  growin'. I never put it out fightin'. The teamin's done it.

  That's silk gone across the counter, that's all. Ever see a old

  four-horse teamster's hands? They look like claws they're that

  crippled an' twisted."

  "Things weren't like that in the old days when our folks crossed

  the plains," she answered. "They might a-got their fingers

  twisted, but they owned the best goin' in the way of horses and

  such."

  "Sure. They worked for themselves. They twisted their fingers for

  themselves. But I'm twistin' my fingers for my boss. Why, d'ye

  know, Saxon, his hands is soft as a woman's that's never done any

  work. Yet he owns the horses an' the stables, an' never does a

  tap of work, an' I manage to scratch my meal-ticket an' my

  clothes. It's got my goat the way things is run. An' who runs 'em

  that way? That's what I want to know. Times has changed. Who

  changed 'em?"

  "God didn't."

  "You bet your life he didn't. An' that's another thing that gets

  me. Who's God anyway? If he's runnin' things--an' what good is he

  if he ain't?--then why does he let my boss, an' men like that

  cashier you mentioned, why does he let them own the horses, an'

  buy the women, the nice little girls that oughta be lovin' their

  own husbands, an' havin' children they're not ashamed of, an'

  just bein' happy accordin' to their nature?"

  CHAPTER XI

  The horses, resting frequently and lathered by the work, had

  climbed the steep grade of the old road to Moraga Valley, and on

  the divide of the Contra Costa hills the way descended sharply

  through the green and sunny stillness of Redwood Canyon.

  "Say, ain't it swell?" Billy queried, with a wave of his hand

  indicating the circled tree-groups, the trickle of unseen water,

  and the summer hum of bees.

  "I love it"' Saxon affirmed. "It makes me want to live in the

  country, and I never have."

  "Me, too, Saxon. I've never lived in the country in my life--an'

  all my folks was country folks."

  "No cities then. Everybody lived in the country."

  "I guess you're right," he nodded. "They just had to live in the

  country."

  There was no brake on the light carriage, and Billy became

  absorbed in managing his team down the steep, winding road. Saxon

  leaned back, eyes closed, with a feeling of ineffable rest. Time

  and again he shot glances at her closed eyes.

  "What's the matter?" he asked finally, in mild alarm. "You ain't

  sick?"

  "It's so beautiful I'm afraid to look," she answered. "It's so

  brave it hurts."

  "BRAVE?--now that's funnny."

  "Isn't it? But it just makes me feel that way. It's brave. Now

  the houses and streets and things in the city aren't brave. But

  this is. I don't know why. It just is."

  "By golly, I think you're right," he exclaimed. "It strikes me

  that way, now you speak of it. They ain't no games or tricks

  here, no cheatin' an' no lyin'. Them trees just stand up natural

  an' strong an' clean like young boys their first time in the ring

  before they've learned its rottenness an' how to double-cross an'

  lay down to the bettin' odds an' the fightfans. Yep; it is brave.

  Say, Saxon, you see things, don't you?" His pause was almost

  wistful, and he looked at her and studied her with a caressing

  softness that ran through her in resurgent thrills. "D'ye know,

  I'd just like you to see me fight some time--a real fight, with

  something doin' every moment. I'd be proud to death to do it for

  you. An' I'd sure fight some with you lookin' on an'

  understandin'. That'd be a fight what is, take it from me. An'

  that's funny, too. I never wanted to fight before a woman in my

  life. They squeal and screech an' don't understand. But you'd

  understand. It's dead open an' shut you would."

  A little later, swinging along the flat of the valley, through

  the little clearings of the farmers and the ripe grain-stretches

  golden in the sunshine, Billy turned to Saxon again.

  "Say, you've ben in love with fellows, lots of times. Tell me

  about it. What's it like?"

  She shook her head slowly.

  "I only thought I was in love--and not many times, either--"

  "Many times!" he cried.

  "Not really ever," she assured him, secretly exultant at his

  unconscious jealousy. "I never was really in love. If I had been

  I'd be married now. You see, I couldn't see anything else to it

  but to marry a man if I loved him."

  "But suppose he didn't love you?"

  "Oh, I don't know," she smiled, half with facetiousness and half

  with certainty and pride. "I think I could make him love me."

  "I guess you sure could," Billy proclaimed enthusiastically.

  "The trouble is," she went on, "the men that loved me I never

  cared for that way.--Oh, look!"

  A cottontail rabbit had scuttled across the road, and a tiny dust r />
  cloud lingered like smoke, marking the way of his flight. At the

  next turn a dozen quail exploded into the air from under the

  noses of the horses. Billy and Saxon exclaimed in mutual delight.

  "Gee," he muttered, "I almost wisht I'd ben born a farmer. Folks

  wasn't made to live in cities."

  "Not our kind, at least," she agreed. Followed a pause and a long

  sigh. "It's all so beautiful. It would be a dream just to live

  all your life in it. I'd like to be an Indian squaw sometimes."

  Several times Billy checked himself on the verge of speech.

  "About those fellows you thought you was in love with," he said

  finally. "You ain't told me, yet."

  "You want to know?" she asked. "They didn't amount to anything."

  "Of course I want to know. Go ahead. Fire away."

  "Well, first there was Al Stanley--"

  "What did he do for a livin'?" Billy demanded, almost as with

  authority.

  "He was a gambler."

  Billy's face abruptly stiffened, and she could see his eyes

  cloudy with doubt in the quick glance he flung at her.

  "Oh, it was all right," she laughed. "I was only eight years old.

  You see, I'm beginning at the beginning. It was after my mother

  died and when I was adopted by Cady. He kept a hotel and saloon.

  It was down in Los Angeles. Just a small hotel. Workingmen, just

  common laborers, mostly, and some railroad men, stopped at it,

  and I guess Al Stanley got his share of their wages. He was so

  handsome and so quiet and soft-spoken. And he had the nicest eyes

  and the softest, cleanest hands. I can see them now. He played

  with me sometimes, in the afternoon, and gave me candy and little

  presents. He used to sleep most of the day. I didn't know why,

  then. I thought he was a fairy prince in disguise. And then he

  got killed, right in the bar-room, but first he killed the man

  that killed him. So that was the end of that love affair.

  "Next was after the asylum, when I was thirteen and living with

  my brother--I've lived with him ever since. He was a boy that

  drove a bakery wagon. Almost every morning, on the way to school,

  I used to pass him. He would come driving down Wood Street and

  turn in on Twelfth. Maybe it was because he drove a horse that

  attracted me. Anyway, I must have loved him for a couple of

  months. Then he lost his job, or something, for another boy drove

  the wagon. And we'd never even spoken to each other.

  "Then there was a bookkeeper when I was sixteen. I seem to run to

  bookkeepers. It was a bookkeeper at the laundry that Charley Long

  beat up. This other one was when I was working in Hickmeyer's

  Cannery. He had soft hands, too. But I quickly got all I wanted

  of him. He was . . . well, anyway, he had ideas like your boss.

  And I never really did love him, truly and honest, Billy. I felt

  from the first that he wasn't just right. And when I was working

  in the paper-box factory I thought I loved a clerk in Kahn's

  Emporium--you know, on Eleventh and Washington. He was all right.

  That was the trouble with him. He was too much all right. He

  didn't have any life in him, any go. He wanted to marry me,

  though. But somehow I couldn't see it. That shows I didn't love

  him. He was narrow-chested and skinny, and his hands were always

  cold and fishy. But my! he could dress--just like he came out of

  a bandbox. He said he was going to drown himself, and all kinds

  of things, but I broke with him just the same.

  "And after that . . . well, there isn't any after that. I must have

  got particular, I guess, but I didn't see anybody I could love.

  It seemed more like a game with the men I met, or a fight. And we

  never fought fair on either side. Seemed as if we always had

  cards up our sleeves. We weren't honest or outspoken, but instead

  it seemed as if we were trying to take advantage of each other.

  Charley Long was honest, though. And so was that bank cashier.

  And even they made me have the fight feeling harder than ever.

  All of them always made me feel I had to take care of myself.

  They wouldn't. That was sure."

  She stopped and looked with interest at the clean profile of his

  face as he watched and guided the homes. He looked at her

  inquiringly, and her eyes laughed lazily into his as she

  stretched her arms.

  "That's all," she concluded. "I've told you everything, which

  I've never done before to any one. And it's your turn now."

  "Not much of a turn, Saxon. I've never cared for girls--that is,

  not enough to want to marry 'em. I always liked men

  better--fellows like Billy Murphy. Besides, I guess I was too

  interested in trainin' an' fightin' to bother with women much.

  Why, Saxon, honest, while I ain't ben altogether good--you

  understand what I mean--just the same I ain't never talked love

  to a girl in my life. They was no call to."

  "The girls have loved you just the same," she teased, while in

  her heart was a curious elation at his virginal confession.

  He devoted himself to the horses.

  "Lots of them," she urged.

  Still he did not reply.

  "Now, haven't they?"

  "Well, it wasn't my fault," he said slowly. "If they wanted to

  look sideways at me it was up to them. And it was up to me to

  sidestep if I wanted to, wasn't it? You've no idea, Saxon, how a

  prizefighter is run after. Why, sometimes it's seemed to me that

  girls an' women ain't got an ounce of natural shame in their

  make-up. Oh, I was never afraid of them, believe muh, but I

  didn't hanker after 'em. A man's a fool that'd let them kind get

  his goat.

  "Maybe you haven't got love in you," she challenged.

  "Maybe I haven't," was his discouraging reply. "Anyway, I don't

  see myself lovin' a girl that runs after me. It's all right for

  Charley-boys, but a man that is a man don't like bein' chased by

  women."

  "My mother always said that love was the greatest thing in the

  world," Saxon argued. "She wrote poems about it, too. Some of

  them were published in the San Jose Mercury."

  "What do you think about it?"

  "Oh, I don't know," she baffled, meeting his eyes with another

  lazy smile. "All I know is it's pretty good to be alive a day

  like this."

  "On a trip like this--you bet it is," he added promptly.

  At one o'clock Billy turned off the road and drove into an open

  space among the trees.

  "Here's where we eat," he announced. "I thought it'd be better to

  have a lunch by ourselves than atop at one of these roadside

  dinner counters. An' now, just to make everything safe an'

  comfortable, I'm goin' to unharness the horses. We got lots of

  time. You can get the lunch basket out an' spread it on the

  lap-robe."

  As Saxon unpacked she basket she was appalled at his

  extravagance. She spread an amazing array of ham and chicken

  sandwiches, crab salad, hard-boiled eggs, pickled pigs' feet,

  ripe olives and dill pickles, Swiss cheese, salted almonds,

  oranges and bananas, and several pint bottles of beer. It was the

  quantity as we
ll as the variety that bothered her. It had the

  appearance of a reckless attempt to buy out a whole delicatessen

  shop.

  "You oughtn't to blow yourself that way," she reproved him as he

  sat down beside her. "Why it's enough for half a dozen

  bricklayers."

  "It's all right, isn't it?"

  "Yes," she acknowledged. "But that's the trouble. It's too much

  so."

  "Then it's all right," he concluded. "I always believe in havin'

  plenty. Have some beer to wash the dust away before we begin?

  Watch out for the glasses. I gotta return them."

  Later, the meal finished, he lay on his back, smoking a

  cigarette, and questioned her about her earlier history. She had

  been telling him of her life in her brother's house, where she

  paid four dollars and a half a week board. At fifteen she had

  graduated from grammar school and gone to work in the jute mills

  for four dollars a week, three of which she had paid to Sarah.

  "How about that saloonkeeper?" Billy asked. "How come it he

  adopted you?"

  She shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know, except that all my

  relatives were hard up. It seemed they just couldn't get on. They

  managed to scratch a lean living for themselves, and that was

  all. Cady--he was the saloonkeeper--had been a soldier in my

  father's company, and he always swore by Captain Kit, which was

  their nickname for him. My father had kept the surgeons from

  amputating his leg in the war, and he never forgot it. He was

  making money in the hotel and saloon, and I found out afterward

  he helped out a lot to pay the doctors and to bury my mother

  alongside of father. I was to go to Uncle Will--that was my

  mother's wish; but there had been fighting up in the Ventura

  Mountains where his ranch was, and men had been killed. It was

  about fences and cattlemen or something, and anyway he was in

  jail a long time, and when he got his freedom the lawyers had got

  his ranch. He was an old man, then, and broken, and his wife took

  sick, and he got a job as night watchman for forty dollars a

  month. So he couldn't do anything for me, and Cady adopted me.

  "Cady was a good man, if he did run a saloon. His wife was a big,

  handsome-looking woman. I don't think she was all right . . . and

  I've heard so since. But she was good to me. I don't care what

  they say about her, or what she was. She was awful good to me.

  After he died, she went altogether bad, and so I went into the

  orphan asylum. It wasn't any too good there, and I had three

  years of it. And then Tom had married and settled down to steady

  work, and he took me out to live with him. And--well, I've been

  working pretty steady ever since."

  She gazed sadly away across the fields until her eyes came to

  rest on a fence bright-splashed with poppies at its base. Billy,

  who from his supine position had been looking up at her, studying

  and pleasuring in the pointed oval of her woman's face, reached

  his hand out slowly as he murmured:

  "You poor little kid."

  His hand closed sympathetically on her bare forearm, and as she

  looked down to greet his eyes she saw in them surprise and

  delight.

  "Say, ain't your skin cool though," he said. "Now me, I'm always

  warm. Feel my hand."

  It was warmly moist, and she noted microscopic beads of sweat on

  his forehead and clean-shaven upper lip.

  "My, but you are sweaty."

  She bent to him and with her handkerchief dabbed his lip and

  forehead dry, then dried his palms.

  "I breathe through my skin, I guess," he explained. "The wise

  guys in the trainin' camps and gyms say it's a good sign for

  health. But somehow I'm sweatin' more than usual now. Funny,

  ain't it?"

  She had been forced to unclasp his hand from her arm in order to

  dry it, and when she finished, it returned to its old position.